


Mirage

by KenrakenOkwaho



Series: Time Long Past [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassin's Creed (Video Game), Assassin's Creed: Revelations, Assassins vs. Templars, Bad Writing, Canonical Character Death, Ghosts, Hidden Blades, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Bad At Titles, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Slash, Light Angst, M/M, Masyaf, No Smut, Past Character Death, Two Shot, possible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:57:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9831329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KenrakenOkwaho/pseuds/KenrakenOkwaho
Summary: Until he sees... oh... he sees him, all pristine white and flowing robes as he looks back.





	1. Chapter 1

Masyaf is like nothing he has ever seen before, all grand and legendary glory as it slumbers under the soft layers of crystal snow, the shadows of its long-lost power embracing the village below with the shroud of a time when their Order was perpetually flourishing. Now, the once high and mighty fortress is abandoned, ghosts of the past haunting the cold bowels of the giant as echoes of unknown, ancient voices speak and yell and laugh and clink their weapons as they train in a world so terribly dark to an outsider, yet so peaceful within the walls of what can be called a Levantine sanctuary.

 

The wind is freezing, cutting his cheeks with its unforgiving whips, the tension rising with each step he takes on the narrow road to the citadel. He knows it's suicidal, but he has to meet **him** once again, even if just for a moment. This longing ate his soul little by little from the first time he had heard **his** name, the mirage of an immemorial promise playing around in his head. He loses focus for an instant, hope clouding his heart and mind, fatal mistake, the sharp tip of an arrow embedding itself cleanly in his armour as it pierces his shoulder. Looking up, he knows he is outnumbered, but he'll fight, no matter what.

 

He crushes bones and he twists necks, he cracks skulls and slashes flesh, his hidden blades coming out, thirsty for the blood they always drank. Until he sees... oh... he sees **him** , all pristine white and flowing robes as **he** looks back through crowding soldiers. He hesitates, his left blade broken in a flash as he falls to the frozen ground, dozens of brutal Templars overpowering his disoriented self.

 

They drag him to the fortress' dungeons, throwing his limp body on the stony floor. They kick him, he lets them, they haul him, he lets them, they mock him, he says nothing, they drag him once again, but to the tower he's been watching. The hideous face of the Templar at the top draws out his dignity, fuels his contempt, his hate, as he wrenches himself out of their dirty hands. He walks with pride to his inevitable death, looking with disdain at the farce of a man standing before him, holding his noose. He nears the edge, he's being roughly pushed by beastly hands, the wooden plank under his feet creaking with the weight overwhelming it. The sudden light coming from grey, winter skies blinds his old eyes for a second, pure white blurring his vision, and he sees **him** again, all grace and prideful stance and ancient glory, walking alongside him, right by his side, the famous eagle of so many stories. And then, he blinks, the one he wished to see was gone, an eagle diving from the sky, plunging through the clouds as he's exposed, his hood yanked down by enemy fingers. It's raw, the texture he feels sliding around his neck, the deadly noose tightening with every breath he takes. He sighs, he feels the breeze, he looks behind, he's seen **him** one last time, he found his strength, so he'll fight back.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Thirteen years have passed since he first saw **his** ghost. Thirteen years since he last saw it too. Brief moments that could easily have been illusions... vain wishes, dreams, desires of a broken heart that fell victim to the frail synapses of a delusional mind, a battered body, and a too old soul for such a time. Altaïr was just as he imagined an eternity ago, imposing, proud, powerful... intimidating, even as a ghost, lips pressed together in a thin line as golden eyes stared at Ezio from under his pure white hood. How ironic, so pure, yet so tainted, tainted with torrid waves of crimson blood, spilled from enemies and innocents alike. The Levantine Mentor saved him that day, he saved his life, but, above all, he saved his soul. He gave him strength, he gave him hope, he gave him a reason to fight, he gave him a purpose.

 

Ever since that faithful encounter, a strange feeling began tugging at his heartstrings, warm, soothing, promising. Then, he met Sofia, young and beautiful Sofia, kind, intelligent Sofia. He went so far as to believe that she will help him to forget... and oh... how wrong he was. It did the opposite. The dreams began, visions of toned muscles grinding down on his young body, feathery kisses caressing his feverish skin as their husky voices gasped and mewled and growled and moaned, together, matching, mingling, dancing through the blurry hallucinations conjured by Ezio's weary mind. For years, that specter of emotion haunted him day and night, conscious and subconscious, reality and reverie, never yielding, never stopping. Until, one day, he realised, it was love... an odd and completely out of place... entirely out of time... kind of love, so strong, so unadulterated, so... real. It scared him so damn much, it scared him because it made him feel helpless, desperate, resentful, incomplete. It scared him because it was so powerful, overwhelming every fiber, every cell, every drop of vital nectar flowing though his veins, because it made him feel alive. Sometimes they talked, meaningless things, stories of the past, yearnings, virtues, memories long-lost, smiling at each other, laughing at their translucent tryst. Frightening... he was at peace, it was so tangible, again... so... real.

 

Now, he's sixty-five, he has a wife, a daughter and a son and he is ill, his heart barely bearing the weight of so many tormenting years of hurt, betrayal, gore and fights for a cause he shall forever support, in death as he has done in life. For quite some time, a familiar misgiving tampers with his mental sphere, a presentiment that has been following him everywhere from the moment his father and his brother's were hung, lurking in the shadows, but never striking for his life. There is no doubt that it won't wait anymore, his time is nearly over. For weeks he's been feeling the cold embrace of death approaching bit by bit... yet he is not afraid, he welcomes it with open arms, spread like the wings of an eagle, ready to fly, to soar through the clouds, to meet his mate. The only thing he regrets is that he will leave Sofia and their children behind, putting them through a sorrow they do not deserve.

 

They tell him to stay home, that he's not well, but he doesn't listen, when did he ever? The market's full of life, as it has always been in Florence, the buzz of people all around bringing him solace, bringing him **home**. He sits down on a bench, tired and out of breath, but happy, while Sofia and Flavia go to buy some groceries nearby "We will be right over here." she tells him, her tender voice calming his inner turmoil, the light press of her lips to his temple alleviating his fear. He watches them go, a smile playing on his lips as Flavia waves at him with all the joy of an innocent child. That's when he sees **him** again, hood down, the same young face he saw last time gazing down at him with content eyes, full of love and promises of eternal peace. Small shudders rake his body as his breathing becomes more and more laboured, Altaïr sitting beside him, his bronze skin almost glowing in the ardent sunlight while tufts of brown hair are ruffled by the gentle breeze. Ezio's sure that only he can see the mighty Mentor of Masyaf and that means that his end has come. His heart struggles to beat, his lungs slowly giving up on their fight as well. Still, he isn't afraid, he is somehow grateful as he feels the Syrian's oddly solid hand holding his, wrapping slim fingers around his wrinkled ones "I've been waiting for you. Are you ready?"

 

Altaïr's deep and serene whisper comforts him, both pairs of eyes glancing to the side at the two women Ezio has been protecting with his whole being for the past decade or so. He tightens his grip on the other's hand, the expressions on Sofia's and Flavia's delicate features piercing his heart with so much pain as heavy eyelids begin to close. And, for a second, he swears that he is young again. And, for a second, he swears that he feels firm lips melding with his own, welcoming him into oblivion.

 


End file.
